


The Box

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, Depression, Not fluffy AT ALL, Oneshot, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson knows the name of this condition. His thought processes. His patterns. He knows that it's almost cliché, to come home from a physical war only to engage in an invisible one. It's expected, although perhaps not in this extreme, up at an absurd hour with a gun pressed to his temple, a bottle of sleeping pills on his night-stand if he chickens out. Wants to do things in a slower way.</p><p>He knows it, yet he does not utter it aloud. For like uttering a demon's name in the dark, it might spread wings. Come alive and breathe smoke into his ear. He knows to name something is to give it power, and like a child he hides from it, denies it even as his finger thumbs the safety. It comes free with an audible click.</p><p>John Watson breathes.</p><p>And most of all, John Watson lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Box

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers are in the tags.

 

 

 

He counts to three.

Closes his eyes. The trembling of his fingers seems like the strongest thing. Louder than even the pounding of his own heart, thudding dully in his chest.

 

John Watson cringes, even while lining the gun up towards the temple of his head. His breath is a sharp thing, slow but prone to explode if given fire, if given fuel. Dark irises close, blond lashes fluttering against pale cheekbones, once-tanned but now sallow and unhealthy.

 

The muzzle of the weapon is cool against his skull. Like cradling the silver glint of the moon to his ear. Somehow, the image is something that comforts the man, fills him. It slowly replaces his breath, so that each inhalation feels doused in silver, so that each blink of his eyes feels as though it takes an age to pass. Like swallowing wet concrete, his Adam's apple bobs and weaves in his throat. The hand that trembles steadies itself in the span of a moment, John's eyes picking out his own reflection in the mirror. He sees before him a shadow, a ghost. Someone entirely too thin, shrouded by an ugly knit jumper, engulfed in a beige and grey world.

 

Someone once told him that he was worth more than just a body in a box.

Who, he couldn't quite recall, it was sometime before he'd gone off to the war. Maybe his sister. Maybe a lover. All unimportant now. He doesn't truthfully know how that statement applies to him, because sitting there in front of him, proof seems to show itself to the contrary of said sentence. A busted leg, a trembling palm. Pained expression, dull and useless. A slow tongue, dragging itself across chapped lips. Lethargic. He's tired, his reflection tells him. Tired of trying. Tired of being awake.

 

Tired of waking up. Because pushing through the next minute, let alone the next day suddenly feels improbable. Impossible. He cannot describe it, all he knows is that a box might offer some sleep, some rest.

 

A breath of peace.

 

John Watson knows the name of this condition. His thought processes. His patterns. He knows that it's almost cliché, to come home from a physical war only to engage in an invisible one. It's expected, although perhaps not in this extreme, up at an absurd hour with a gun pressed to his temple, a bottle of sleeping pills on his night-stand if he chickens out. Wants to do things in a slower way.

 

He knows it, yet he does not utter it aloud. For like saying a demon's name in the dark, it might spread wings. Come alive and breathe smoke into his ear. He knows to name something is to give it power, and like a child he hides from it, denies it even as his finger thumbs the safety. It comes free with an audible _click._

 

John Watson breathes.

 

And most of all, John Watson lies.

 

Because whenever he tells himself the truth, his hands start to tremble, and he can't seem to put his Browning out of his sight. Out of mind. This is what happens when John Watson dares to think. To stop.

 

It is needless to say, that he doesn't crave danger.

It is a necessity. For people like him.

 

In order to stop the thinking.

Staring at his own reflection, the man lets the gun fall to his lap. Lets the posture of his rigid shoulders fall loose. Lets himself sob, heavy, dry things into the cup of his palm.

 

For above all, when John Watson starts thinking, he thinks of that desert, that fucking sand. How he'd begged and pleaded to any deity to let him live.

 

It seems strange, but he feels that to end it months later, in a cold and dreary bedsit, would almost seem ungrateful.

So John Watson puts away his gun, tucking it into his night-stand drawer. His hands shake again, but this time, it is not from fear.

 

Rather, it is from something cold and clenching and numb inside of him, curling like a snake. A ball of ice.

 

_Your body doesn't deserve to be in a box in the ground._

 

No.

But his mind feels like it's already preparing its own grave.

 


End file.
